


Erastès Kalos

by sp_oops



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fuck Or Die, Littering, Mildly Dubious Consent, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 07:15:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19740820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sp_oops/pseuds/sp_oops
Summary: Sam gets hit with a curse that has only one cure.Takes place during Season 14.





	Erastès Kalos

**Author's Note:**

> This one’s for @[freewillsnippets](http://freewillsnippets.tumblr.com) on this, the day of her birth!!!!! ✨🎉✨
> 
> [Kalos vases](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kalos_inscription) are a real thing. Forgive me, archeologists and historians, for the liberties I’ve taken with ‘em. Also with the Greek language. Mega RIP.

.

.

“Hate witches,” Dean grunts from the front seat, hands twisting on the wheel. “Creepy-ass cursed objects. Why they gotta curse everything they own?”

You lean over the seat back. “‘Cause hunters always bust in and touch everything they own.”

His lips purse in the rear-view mirror. You expect Sam to chime in, but he’s squinting at his phone. He’s been near-silent since you guys busted out of Monarch Pass this morning, eating up the tree-lined miles of 50 East back toward Lebanon.

The case was pretty cut-and-dry: a witch kidnapping locals for ritual sacrifice. Tracking her down was a cinch, but when you guys cornered her—you, Sam, Dean, Cas, and Jack—the witch panicked. She started chucking cursed objects from her endless collection. Most of you managed to duck, avoiding contact with your skin, but then she hurled a delicate, dusty old vase at Sam.

Sam caught it.

“No!” Cas shouted, and summoned enough grace to shatter the vase into crumbs and launch his angel blade at the witch. The blade bit deep into the witch’s left eye, and that was that. In the comedown, Cas checked Sam over with another sweep of grace, but couldn’t find anything wrong. “You’re fine,” he said. “Whatever the curse was, it must’ve died with her.”

Sam barely heard him, the way he was already heading right for you. His shoulders heaved, his worried hazel eyes swept you head to foot. “You all right?” he asked. “I saw that giant crystal hit your elbow.”

You dropped your hand from your sleeve, cheeks burning at his obvious concern. “I’m good.” Behind him, Dean waggled his eyebrows at you. Jerk. “I didn’t touch anything,” you add. “Unlike _some_ of us.”

“Hey, according to Cas, I’m okay.”

“Classic Sam,” you teased. “Only you’d risk a terrible curse to save some janky old vase.”

“It was a Grecian amphora,” he muttered, hand on the back of his neck.

“ _Wow_.” You nudged him. “You _Antiques Roadshow_ -obsessed bastard.”

He’d nudged you back, laughing, his smile shining through that glorious beard.

You like to think you’re the reason Sam kept it. The beard. He grew it out while Michael rode Dean around for eight weeks. Dean got home and promptly made it his life’s mission to bemoan the beard, but you finally pulled him aside, pointed in his face, and said, “ _Do not ruin this for me_.”

He shut up about it after that. But then started waggling his god damn eyebrows whenever Sam paid attention to you.

Which was often. _Is_ often.

It’s always been often, though. It’s not—there isn’t. _He_ isn’t—it doesn’t matter how much closer youand Sam got while Dean was gone. And it doesn’t matter that you were the only person at the bunker who could talk Sam into slowing down, or that he did the same for you. The way you two worked so seamlessly together. . . that’s just how Sam _is_. He’s an intense guy. Signals you’d otherwise interpret as complete and total interest mean nothing coming from Sam, because he’s that way with lots of people.

And anyway, if you took a chance and actually made a move, and he turned you down, you’d lose him. How the hell were either of you going to get Dean back if you couldn’t work together? How could you go back to life as usual at the bunker after that?

Better not think on it.

Now, you squint at Sam’s screen. “What are we looking at?”

Sam flinches, nearly dropping his phone. “Uh—” He scrambles to catch it, twitchy. “History of Route 50.”

 _Weirdo_ , you think fondly. “Oh, really.”

He breathes out a noise like, _Nyeeargh_. “I dunno. Sounded interesting. Get—um. Get this: it actually predates the Interstate Highway System, which wasn’t started until after World War II—”

“ _Jeee_ sus,” Dean grumps. “Rather put up with one of your true crime podcasts than listen to this.”

You nudge Sam’s shoulder, and—your heart plummets when he leans away from the touch. _That’s_ new. Still, you say, “Thought you get carsick when you read.”

“Yeah, usually. Just. I dunno.” His cheeks are pink above the line of his beard. He squeezes his eyes shut. Through clenched teeth, he says, “Dean, can you pull over?”

“Dude. We’re only twenty minutes from civilization. I don’t—”

“ _Dean_.”

“Dammit.” Dean turns the wheel, eases on the brake. “Swear to god, if you get sick in this car—”

“Sam, you okay?” You can’t hide the alarm in your voice.

“I just need to take a leak. Just—just gimme a minute.”

Sam’s got the door open before the car’s even stopped. Without a backward glance, he bats bushes aside and disappears into greenery.

Dean sighs, throwing the car in park. He hooks an arm over the seat back to see you better. “Betcha ten bucks he gets poison ivy on his dick.”

You snort. “He allergic?”

“Oh, totally.”

In the rear-view mirror, Cas and Jack are just approaching in Cas’s new-to-him Yaris, which he pulls to the shoulder behind the Impala. (“What happened to the truck?” Dean asked the first time Cas rolled up all sleek and Toyota-ed. Cas gave the Impala a significant look and said, “If I’m going to drive, I’d prefer not to leave a carbon footprint deep enough to reach the earth’s core.”) Now, Cas climbs out, coat billowing, as he comes to see what’s up.

“Sam’s got a tiny bladder,” Dean explains, window down. “We got a bet going. You want in?”

Cas frowns. “Terms?”

You study the treeline. You can’t help it: you’re worried. The case last night. . . if anything wonky was going down with somebody, it’d be with Sam, because of that god damn amphibian. Amph-something. Whateverthefuck. The vase.

“Should we check on him?” you ask.

“I’m not going out there,” Dean says. “Been sharing motel rooms with that guy since we were kids. I don’t need any more eyefuls.”

“Do you think there’s something wrong?” Cas asks you.

“Just thinking about that vase.”

“The amphora.”

“Nerds,” Dean huffs.

“Wondering if maybe there’s—I dunno. A late-onset curse, or something. So your grace couldn’t sense it.”

“It’s possible.”

“You go check on him, if you’re so worried,” says Dean, turning to you. His eyebrows lift and lower. “He’d like that.”

Your face goes molten. “The hell would you know about it.”

“ _Rawr_.”

This asshole. “I’m—you know what, _fine._ I’ll go.” You launch yourself out of the car and into sunlight and fresh air.

It smells delicious out here, and when you trudge into the woods, the scent only intensifies. It’s loamy and piney and leafy. “Sam?” You shimmy down the slight hill beyond the bushes. “Hey—Sam, are you here?”

When he doesn’t answer, you frown. He just went for a leak. Surely he didn’t like, get mauled by a grizzly. Or clipped by a hunter—the orange-vest-with-a-rifle kind—firing off a shot. You would’ve heard the shot.

Half a dozen yards to your right, a loud, wrenching moan startles a flight of birds into the air.

Your belly fills with shocked heat. That was _Sam_. And you’d bet your life that wasn’t a moan of pain.

It happens again, another desperate moan that drops all that heat directly into your groin, only this time the noise cuts itself off, and then starts again in a short, hoarse noise that’s almost a whimper. You can pinpoint him now; there’s a wide tree trunk not far off, and that’s definitely a flanneled red elbow poking from behind it.

Carefully, quietly, you draw closer. You can hear him gasping, panting, but otherwise still. Jesus Christ, what the _hell_ is he doing? What are _you_ doing, all a-throb between your legs like this? You try again: “Sam?”

Leaves rustle as he flinches. “Hi—don’t—uh—”

“I’m not coming any closer,” you promise. “Are you okay?”

“I dunno.” His voice is a little ragged. Exhausted. “I think—uh. Jesus, this is embarrassing—maybe that vase got me after all.”

Should you be worried about yourself here, too? “What’s happening?”

Silence, except for his huffing. “No idea how to explain without sounding like just—just—a total creep.”

“Try me.”

Another silence. Then leaves rustle; he’s standing up. And there’s the sound of a zipper being drawn up, _what_ —

He steps into sight, and you gotta catch your breath. His cheeks burn pink, and so does the patch of chest peeking from his gray v-neck tee under his open, red-checked button-down. The dip between his clavicles shines with the start of sweat. His shoulders heave, but they’re rounded, slouched, his hands deep in his pockets. His hair hangs so that it wavers with each breath out.

He looks like he just got fucked. _Hard._

You blurt, “Tell me the curse isn’t some kinda freaky sex thing.”

“Um.” His shoulders inch upward as he winces. “I think it was some kinda freaky sex thing.”

“‘ _Was?’”_

“Yeah. I—I took care of it, I think. Uh. Twice.” He can’t look at you.

“ _Took care of—_ ” Are you going to say this out loud? You’re going to say this out loud. “—so the curse made you, what—jerk off into the bushes?”

“Fuck. I guess.” He frees his right hand to run it down his face.

Meaning he must jack off with his left hand.

Okay. That’s. Wow. That’s a thing you know now.

Somehow you croak, “Just to be clear, here. This wasn’t a normal amount of super horny?”

“No.” He blows out a breath. “Not even close. It was too sudden, too—” His dimples flare in frustration, visible even beneath his scruff. “We were in the car, and then just. . . I mean, _wham_ , I was ready to go.”

You shake your head, lost. Still kind of weirdly turned on.

He tries again. “Like I’d been about to come for an hour. I was afraid I’d _move_ wrong and just—ruin my jeans. Started reading the most boring thing I could think of to try to calm down, but. . .”

Realization dawns. “That’s why you flinched away from me. When I touched your shoulder.”

He closes his eyes, briefly. “Yeah.”

You hold out a hand, palm-down. “You really feel okay now?”

“Yeah. Once I had to stand up to see you. . .”

“Oh, good,” you mutter, _mortified_. “I’m a boner-slayer.”

“Sounds like a _Game of Thrones_ guy.”

“Yeah, they killed him off in season one.”

He grins, eyes sparkling as they find yours again. God, he looks good. Still rumpled, but so trusting, too.

You’re grinning right back. Can’t even help it. “You’re sure you’re good? That was all?”

“I think so.” He nods. Dimples of deep thought frame his mouth now. “Yeah. Let’s head back.”

The Impala’s almost in sight when he staggers.

Panic stabs through you as Sam doubles over, then slumps halfway against a tree with a groan.

Holy shit. “Sam?”

“Okay,” he gasps, heated color patchy in his cheeks. “Maybe that wasn’t all.”

Holy hell. He’s got himself steadied, his back against the tree trunk as he sinks down onto the roots. You gulp. “There’s no way that’s a normal refractory period.”

“It’s not.” His voice is strained; he’s half curled over himself. “I’m— _nnh_. Not in my twenties anymore.”

“Eh. I’m sure you do all right.”

His laugh turns into a moan. “ _Don’t_ —don’t tease. Makes it worse.”

Your heart’s pounding. Christ, you can’t look away from his hands, clenched in the legs of his jeans, his knuckles shining bone-pale. He’s probably trying to keep from yanking open his belt right then and there. Taking himself in hand. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” He’s drawing in deep breaths, eyes squeezed shut. “No, fuck, more like—the exact opposite.”

And he can’t even move from it, apparently. You gesture uselessly back toward the car. “I’m gonna. I should go get Dean.”

“No way.” His eyes wrench back open, wide and pleading. _Dark_ , pupils dilated. “He’ll be the world’s biggest dick about it. You know he will.”

“Yeah, good point.” But you gotta do _something_. “I’m at least gonna get Cas.”

“No. I can handle—”

“Dude.” You take a knee in front of him, about to touch his own knee when you remember that apparently touching him just—hoo, boy. Just sets him off more. Imagine it, you could touch him now and _see_ the pleasure he takes from you. Watch his head tip back, watch him give in, his legs falling open— _focus! Don’t make it weirder!_ “Sam. Listen. This isn’t normal. We need to figure out what’s going on. It’s a _curse_. What happens if it runs its course? Your life—you could be in danger. I’m not gonna let you die in the woods from a freaky sex curse. Let me go get Cas. He can figure out what’s going on.”

Even through the beard, you can see Sam’s jaw clench. One of his hands is working the fabric of his jeans, bunching and unbunching, helpless. “Okay,” he grits at last. “Okay.”

“Okay.” You nod gamely. “I got you, man.”

He pants out a half-moan, eyes closing again. He nods, turning his face away.

You get the hell outta there.

* * *

Cas comes out of the woods shaking his head.

“Well?” Dean barks, arms spread.

“It’s the vase,” says Cas. “Its magic waited to take root until Sam was far enough away that he might not suspect it.”

You lean against the Impala with both hands. “Oof.”

Jack’s already on his phone, thumbs a-patter. “I’m going to try to find it online.”

“Can you fix him?” Dean asks Cas.

“No. But curses like this usually have a panacea. A way out, described in the lore that goes with it.”

“‘ _Curses like this_?’” you repeat. “You seen a lot of curses that turn people into horndogs?”

Cas arrows you with a look. “Not so specific. But curses that tend to progress in their intensity—yes. Curses that make their victims unwilling participants in their own humiliation, degradation—yes.”

Your face has been burning at a fuckzillion degrees Kelvin since you got out of this car twenty minutes ago, and there is _no_ sign of stopping. “Oh.”

“Found it,” says Jack, holding his phone aloft. The three of you crowd around him. There it is—elegant black, spindly, with two graceful curved handles. An amphora, just like Sam said. And, rendered in red-orange, a couple is _going at it_.

“Yeah,” says Dean, “that looks like our vase. What’s the deal?”

Jack scrolls and reads. “Found at a site in Macedonia beneath a brothel about twenty years ago. . . probably filled with some kind of scented oil. Seems like. . . whoa. It’s been passed among nearly a dozen collectors. Five of them have died.”

Dean has to pace a few steps away, his mouth pressed in a thin line of worry.

“There’s gotta be good news,” you press, worry churning in your guts. “Anything.”

“Um. . .” Jack’s shaking his head, scrolling. “It disappeared last year. Guess that’s when our witch grabbed it. There’s no details about the vase itself, though.”

“Has it got a name?” You drag your own phone out.

Jack’s scrolls again. “ _Erastès kalos_.”

Cas translates. “‘The lovers are beautiful.’”

You wince. “That’s on the nose.” And takes a ton of work to Google, since it thinks you’re looking for about twelve different historic romance novels written in Greek. But eventually the vase turns up its own Wikipedia page, which all four of you scour.

There’s an inscription with a translation beside it.

_If one partakes alone of the oil within_

_He shall be cursed with the loneliest love_

_Until he perishes_

_Or a lover saves him_

Cas blinks, reaching for the phone. “I don’t think that’s translated quite right.”

You’re trying not to think too hard about it. “Yeah? You mean he won’t actually drop dead?”

“No—I’m just being pedantic. The meaning is still clear.”

“And that is?” Dean asks, pale.

“Somebody’s got to have sex with him,” says Cas, “soon. Or he’s going to die.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean says. “Not it.”

“Me neither,” Jack adds quickly.

Has your heart always pounded this hard, and you’re only just now noticing? Was there ever a time your pulse was actually chill? You manage a dry, “So. . .”

“It’s down to you and me,” Cas says, phone forgotten in his hands.

You gulp. “Rock, paper, scissors?”

“No,” says Dean, “no, no, no—look, I don’t wanna be that guy, but—kid, c’mon.” He’s looking at you, pleading. “Aren’t you and Sam practically dating anyway?”

Your breath catches. “ _What?_ ”

“Wait.” Jack’s staring openly. “They’re not dating?”

“Oh, Jesus.” You scrub your hands through your hair. “What makes you think—”

“You guys’ve been flirting from day _one_ ,” Dean insists. “And man, after Michael dropped me off—I just assumed you guys’d made it to the bone zone.”

Face. In. Hands. “ _Please_ don’t call it that.”

Cas is staring, too. “Wait. You really haven’t?”

“No!” Can you sink through the asphalt? Can you just disappear into the molten core of the earth, like Cas said? “Nope. Still single. So is Sam, far as I know. Why, d’you—has he told you something?”

“He doesn’t need to,” says Dean. “Those puppy-dog faces he’s always dishing out—it’s obvious he’s into you.”

You fold your arms. Your lower lip’s trembling, for some reason. “Not obvious to me.”

Cas is giving you some seriously soft eyes. “I thought you might’ve wanted to do it,” he says. “But if you don’t—it’s all right. Leave it to me.”

Christ. “Tell you what,” you say, voice cracking. “Pretty sure this isn’t our decision to begin with. Let’s ask Sam.”

Cas nods, solemn. “I’ll ask. Find out if he has a preference. And I’ll make sure he’s still all right.”

He disappears into the woods again. “Man,” Dean says, “I’m sorry. The way he always is around you, I just assumed—”

“You were wrong.” You shove your hands into your pockets. You gotta walk this one off. You gotta—you head off down the road. Not too far. Just far enough to escape their pitying stares.

They can all see something you can’t. Maybe—god damn it. Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe all those signals you ignored actually did mean something.

You’re pretty sure you can pinpoint a night where you coulda done something about it, too. Michael still had Dean. The bunker was bustling all evening. You watched Sam turn down invitations to a nightcap from almost every hunter in the place. Later, he sat down across from you at the kitchen table with the good whiskey and two faceted tumblers.

You didn’t get to bed until three that night. Somebody’d left a battered deck of playing cards on the table, so you and Sam laughed through war and rummy, and he tried to recreate a card trick he’d half-learned years ago. There was more laughter than magic, both of you languid-limbed, easy, from the booze. His eyes sparkled. His new beard rasped through his fingertips. You felt all kinds of warm in your chest for the first time since Michael yanked Dean outta that church.

You really should’ve made a move. You could’ve caught Sam’s hand mid-flourish, tangled your fingers together. Then pulled yourself around the table to sit in his lap and kiss the booze off his lips.

But you panicked. If you were wrong—god, if you were wrong, and you lost Sam. . .

After this, though—after what you two might have to do now—you’re going to lose him anyway.

“This is so _stupid_ ,” you mutter aloud. “This is the stupidest. . .” You kick a rock down the road.

Dean calls your name.

On the walk back, they’re all looking at you and pretending they aren’t. Pityingly, Cas tells you, “He asked for you.”

Welp.

That’s fine. And you know what, Sam’s probably not into dudes, so this doesn’t mean anything. You’re just the nearest person who even kinda matches his preferences.

Jesus. It is _too warm_ out here. You mutter, “Anybody got a condom?”

Dean shoots you a look of abject horror. Cas looks away, his discomfort almost as unbearable as your own.

But Jack lifts a hand. “I have condoms.”

You gape. “You _do_?”

“Yeah.” He says it like it’s obvious, and gestures back at the Yaris. “I can get you some. They’re in my bag.”

“They’re in— _plural?_ ” You can barely believe what you’re hearing. “Where the hell did you get condoms?”

“Dean said I should have protection if I’m going to spend time with people my age. Well—people whose age I look like.”

You and Cas both turn to Dean, scandalized.

“ _What_ ,” Dean barks, folding his arms. “You think I’m gonna let this kid go out there and spawn part-nephilims with some unsuspecting chick?”

“Exactly,” says Jack, almost proudly. “I’m being responsible.”

“Oh my god.” You rub your temples. “Yeah. Jack, if you wanna—I will take one. _One_.”

Jack beams. “I’ll be right back.”

Cas rounds on Dean. “Do you _really think_ he’s ready for intercourse?”

“He’s the only one who can answer that,” Dean grumps. “I just thought—better have ‘em and not need ‘em than need ‘em and not have ‘em.”

Cas shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”

“Condom!” Jack’s back, holding up a foil packet that positively shines in the sun.

You pluck it out of his fingers, jamming it deep into your pocket. “When we get back,” you say through your teeth, “when this works, I don’t want to hear a word about it _ever again_. Cool?”

Dean’s lips purse. “Cool.”

“Cool,” say Jack and Cas.

“Cool,” you agree. Then you turn and head into the woods.

* * *

You deliberately approach from the other side of the tree where he slumped. So he’s hidden. “Sam?”

“Y-yeah.” He sounds _wrecked. “_ Yeah. Hey. It—dammit. It happened again. I’m—fuck, I’m sorry.”

“ _I’m_ sorry. How many times is that now?”

“Four.”

“So much for being done with it, right.”

“I thought—earlier. You showed up and it stopped, but I guess. . . the curse just thought it was about to get something better.”

You. It thought it would get you. You shiver. That the curse can _sense_ these things—that’s creepy as hell.

“You can come around,” Sam offers, weary. “No point in me hiding now, right.”

Deep breath. You can _totally_ get through this without giving away how much you like him. _Totally._

You step around the tree.

He’s—oh, sweet fucking lord, he’s even more decadent then you imagined. Seated against the tree trunk, knees up, belt askew and fly open, his dick hidden in the grip of his shining-wet knuckles. His hair is wild, his spare hand up in it, his face patchy-pink, sweat shining at his temples. His button-down shirt lays open, t-shirt partway rucked up, enough to see the soft shadow of hair on his belly, trailing down beneath his fist. Muscles flex in his forearms. At the sight of you, his eyes nearly roll back, and his hips rock into his fist. The hand in his hair drops. “Fuck,” he groans, throat working, knuckles flexing, “fuck.”

“Sam.” You barely hear your own voice.

“I’m sorry.” His brows pull up in desperation, his dark eyes finding yours. “God, I’m so sorry. I thought you’d—if you’d rather it was Cas—”

“Hey. No, it’s—it’s okay.” You gotta get closer; for all it’ll be unbearably intimate, it’s better than staring at this absolutely debauched scene from a distance. You drop down beside him, looking everywhere but at his lap. In fact—you pick up a corner of open flannel and lay it over said lap. “Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t on board.” You gulp. “What are friends for, right?”

He lifts a wry eyebrow. “Pretty sure they’re not for this.”

“They are today.”

He’s searching your face. “Look. I’ve been meaning. . . I should’ve said some— _oh_.” His breath bursts out of him and his hips roll again. _Jesus._ You steady yourself with a hand on the tree trunk. “Dammit,” Sam pants, “it must think we’re taking too long.”

“Tell me what to do.” You’re trying to breathe steadily despite the heat twisting through your groin. _I should have said something,_ he was gonna say. About _what?_ “However you wanna do this—”

“Too late this time. It’s—” His spare hand flings out, wraps around a tree root, his other hand working in slow, uneven pulls. His eyes close, head tipping back as his body winds up tight, his whole face a rictus of pleasure as he comes again. God, the hoarse, gasping groan that wrenches out of him—it’s almost a sob.

Your hands are shaking, you realize. Heat pulses deep between your legs, your heart’s still thundering in your ears. This is so much more than you ever thought you’d get. Look at him, he’s patchy-pink in his cheeks, down his shining neck and chest, you’re going to have him, but—

Don’t give it away. Don’t give your heart away. You croak, “You just shooting blanks now, or. . .?”

His laugh is weak, but it’s there. That tired smile looks so good on him. “Not yet. No idea how, though.”

“You need some water? Protein bar?”

He makes a face. “I’m good. I need to just. . .”

“Get this over with?”

His eyes meet yours, pained. “I’m—”

“Sam,” you mutter, looking away, “if you apologize again, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“I’d deserve it.”

“You don’t,” you promise. Feeling bold, you touch his shoulder. He breathes out hard, but doesn’t shy away this time. “You don’t deserve this. Your lame, nerdy ass caught a pretty vase because you didn’t want something old and special smashed to smithereens. Nobody deserves a curse for that.” You try to smile. “Now c’mon. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can get back on the road. I’m starving.”

His eyes flicker with—is that hurt? Disappointment?

Ugh, come on. You’re projecting. _You_ want something more outta this, so you’re hoping he will, too. And even if you aren’t projecting, the curse is making him do all this. Feel all this. If he’s hurt because you’re trying to act blasé, it’s all curse.

You glance around. “So how you wanna do this?”

“Here, I guess.”

You’re still trying not to stare at his lap. “You want me on top?”

“I—no. That’s more, um. Effort. On your part. Than I’d rather you have to do.”

“Are we going full vanilla? Just—missionary?”

“Yeah.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Thought we’d save the fuzzy handcuffs ’til next time.”

The surprised laugh spills out of you. _Next time_ , he said. _Curse_ , you remind yourself. “Is fuzzy handcuffs as kinky as Sam Winchester gets?”

He moans through a laugh.

“Man. This curse does not like me teasing you.” You can’t bring yourself to say _flirting_.

“It does,” he pants. “That’s the problem.” His throat works. “Gimmie a hand?”

You help him upright, and then—then you’re standing across from each other. Staring. The mirth is fading from his eyes, and suddenly all that’s left is hunger. Heat. Shine on the inside of his parted lips.

His red-and-black-checked overshirt goes first. His arms emerge, pale and vulnerable and dappled with sunlight. He lays the flannel on the ground behind him, on the soft dirt framed by the roots leading to the tree. When he comes back up, you stare at the veins raising shadows along his forearms, up his biceps. His gray t-shirt’s a little patchy with sweat, and the dip between his collarbones still gleams, but somehow it’s enticing. His hazel eyes shine raw with need, all dark and serious, looking at you like you’ve only fantasized about after a drink or three.

He takes a slow step closer, closing the distance. His hands come up to his splayed belt, tendons flexing, his knuckles strong and broad. _Those could be inside me_ , you think. Those gorgeous fingers, pulling pleasure out of you in languid strokes.

You gotta do this too, you remember. At least get your pants partway down. Enough to free a knee and open your legs. _Hell_. Your fingers drift to your top jeans button. Your face flames. Your heart pounds.

Hollow with want, Sam says, “I don’t have to look.”

You try to scoff, dismiss him. _It’s just bodies_ , you’d like to protest. _No big deal_. But your voice gets stuck, and you gotta try again. “Maybe—maybe come closer, then we can both avoid. Um.”

“Yeah.” He takes another step. His knuckles brush yours, hooked in his jeans. Ready to drop them. His hair hangs in his face, skimming your temples. He breathes in shakily, and you know he’s breathing you in, too. “Dammit,” he says, “forgot to ask if you had a—”

You’ve got the foil packet in your fingers, holding it up.

He near slumps in relief, but can’t stop an _nnngh._ “We should—we should sit,” he says.

You do, right on the soft flannel. Your back to the tree, and Sam across from you.

His hands shake so badly he can barely open the condom, much less roll it on. “How we doing,” you ask, staring determinedly at a branch over his shoulder. You’ve gotten your jeans and undies partway down. You’re still mostly hidden by your own shirt.

“I think it can tell we’re close,” he pants. “The curse. It’s—god, I don’t think I’ve ever been this hard in my life.”

Heat rolls through you. “Still doesn’t hurt?”

“No.” He looks up, condom done. His eyes are bright and feverish, searching yours.

You can’t help but ask, “Feels good?”

He gulps. “You have no idea.”

“I got some, just looking at you.” You wet your lips, then sit back on your elbows. “C’mere.”

He groans as he crawls over you, framing you with his body. “God, I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay, Sam.” Maybe it’s instinct, or need, but your hand just comes up, cupping his scruffy cheek. He leans into it, a hoarse noise escaping his lips. “It’s okay,” you say again. “Do what you need to do. I get it—it’s the curse. It’s not you.” No matter how much you wish it was. “It’s okay. I promise.”

He nods against your palm, his beard sending goosebumps across your skin. “Can I make sure you’re—you’re ready? Since we don’t have lube. Or anything.”

Holy hell. “Yeah. What you have in mind?”

“Fingers okay?”

Gonna get your wish after all, it seems. “Yep.”

He uses his spare hand, the one he hasn’t been jerking off with. Fucking thoughtful gorgeous man, gently folding your leg up to part your thighs, then smoothing the backs of his fingers up until—oh, _Jesus—_

“Fuck,” he groans, ducking his head, his hair brushing your neck. Shivers float up your body. “ _Nnnh_ , fuck, you’re _wet_.”

Cover your bases. Cover all of ‘em. He can’t know how you feel. “Yeah. I— _guh_. Good-looking guy like you, all—all hot and bothered—name me s-somebody who _wouldn’t_ get worked up.”

His fingers slip inside, easy, Jesus Christ it’s easy, two of them just _in_ all at once, deep, back out, pulling you apart, pulling that pleasure out of you like he’s always known exactly how to play you. You gulp back a moan and resist the urge to bury your hands in his hair. “Okay,” you whisper, trying not to writhe on that exquisite touch. “Not gonna get much more ready.”

His fingers come away slick, and—heat _swoops_ your insides—he lifts them to his slack mouth. Just before he can lick the taste of you away, his jaw clenches; he drops his hand to the flannel beneath you, steadying himself. _He wanted that_. He wanted to fill his mouth with your wetness, swallow it down with his fingers heavy on his tongue—

“Come on,” you say. In your peripheral he’s hanging _so_ hard between his legs, heavy and ready. “It’s okay, Sam.”

He nods, he moves, settling more closely overtop of you. His dick brushes into the crease of your thigh, _fuck_ , it’s smooth and hot even through the condom. Impossibly hard. Your hands fly to his shirt without thinking, curling into the fabric, soft with the heat of his body. Jesus, he smells good. Your knuckles press into the solid slope of his pecs, holding him there. Pausing him just a moment.

He waits. His hips strain in half-thrusts, but he waits.

Deep breath in.

 _It’s a curse_ , you remind yourself, closing your eyes. _He doesn’t actually want you. Don’t forget. Don’t give it away. Don’t make it completely impossible to be friends again._

Deep breath out. You open your eyes, find his, and nod. You ease up the pressure on his chest.

He swallows hard. Then his hand dips back down between you, guiding himself. And _oh—_ there he is—blunt, _hot_ , a delicious stretch as he sinks in just enough to stay.

His hand crashes back to the flannel, and with a cry, he ducks his head against your shoulder. Every breath is warm against your shoulder. He croaks, “I can’t—I don’t think it’s gonna let me go easy— _god_ —”

Fuck it. Fuck it—you weave your hands into his soft hair, letting it pour through your fingers. “Take what you need,” you whisper.

He _shouts_ as he shoves inside in one long, deep thrust. Pleasure seizes against your walls, his path made easy from how wet you are, and he’s already on his way back out, then _in_ again, deep as before, stopping just short of pain. A harsh, helpless noise grinds past his clenched jaw. “Fuck,” he groans against your shoulder. “You feel so— _so_ good— _ah!_ ” Another thrust. Another, each more delicious than the last. He’s barely pausing now, and over his shoulder, his t-shirt rides up enough that you can see the curve of his ass rolling sinuously downward, muscles clenching as his hips work without pause. His head comes up, beard brushing your cheek along the way. “You’re— _nngh._ You’re okay?”

You nod, closing your eyes against the intensity of his. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Never stopped.” Even through his curse-addled hunger, you hear his half-smile. “Just—unnh. Fuck— _fuck_. Just tell me if I. If it’s—”

“I’ll tell you.” God, the angle he’s working—every time his hips seal briefly against yours, he’s putting pressure on your clit, fleeting and maddening. Lighting up the sparks he’s stoking with every thrust. “I will.”

He nods, his head still in your hands. He ducks to your shoulder once more.

Behind your closed eyes, you’re—damn it, you’re taking what you can get. This isn’t a forest floor, with roots and rocks poking through the flannel. This is Sam’s room at the bunker. His blankets are soft and bunched beneath you. The desk lamp’s low. Maybe his laptop sits open, Netflix still running whatever foodie documentary or true crime show he hoped you’d enjoy. It’s oblivious to what you’re doing instead, how closely you’re twined together. You’d kiss him through your gasps of pleasure, nuzzling at that gorgeous beard, plucking at those soft lips.

No clothes, either. No t-shirts gathering heat between you with only warm half-presses of your bellies against one another. You’d wrap your bare legs around his narrow hips, pull him deep. Trace your palms down shoulder blades, clavicles, brush thumbs over his nipples to see if he gasped with pleasure or shied away. He’d be so careful, the first time. So obviously in love.

There’s nothing careful or romantic about this. Here, his hips smack into yours with frantic desperation, the thick, wet noises loud enough that you can’t help but wonder if your friends can hear, and that’s not even counting the wordless, strangled noises he’s making, relief plain in every sound.

“Close,” he manages, “god, I’m—already—”

In the bunker, he’d pull you up with him and get you on top. Watch you move astride his hips with stars in his lust-dark eyes. He’d say your name with desire. Not apology. Shame. A mantra from his lips, hoarse with need.

Oh, boy.

“Shit,” you breathe, eyes snapping open, “ _Oh_ —Sam, I, I’m gonna come, too—”

“Yeah?” He lifts his head to meet your gaze. No, there’s nothing careful or romantic here, but the look on his face—if it’s not love, it’s close. He’s all hope, tender sincerity, even in the midst of so much raw brutality. “You are?”

“I can’t help—” Even now it’s peaking, drawing you up with it, higher and tighter and deeper. You wrap your arms around him. So damn broad. “I’m sorry—”

“No.” He crushes his forehead to yours. “No—just come with me. Please, just come with me. I need—” And he groans, loud and long, his hips seizing up to yours before he rolls out and then in again, harder, staying.

You crash into it, back arching, burying your whimpers in the heat of his shoulder and the soft fabric bunched there, biting down on it as the orgasm takes you over in undulating waves of shimmering, shivery bliss. You tighten yourself around him and wring every drop of pleasure out of it all, again and again, until there’s nothing left. Nothing except gulping for air, letting your muscles unclench as you slump back against the flannel.

Sam’s eyes are open wide, his body gone still, and—oh, _shit_ —his pupils have flooded into his irises, his eyes solid black until suddenly they’re ringed with the same terra-cotta red-orange as those figures on that vase, swirling, swirling—

And then the colors fade out like a dissipating fog, leaving nothing but hazel and normal pupils behind. He hadn’t been breathing but now he gasps, catching his breath, his eyes dazed until they lock onto yours.

“Holy shit,” you manage. “Sam, did you feel that?”

“It’s gone,” he pants. “I felt _something_ —did you see something?”

“Your eyes. They turned the same colors as that amphora. They’re normal now, though, they’re—” _Beautiful_ , is what you barely hold back. You bite your lower lip. “They’re normal.”

Sam nods. His whole body is trembly, his hands clenched by your shoulders. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Good.” Sweat gleams on his forehead. His hair hangs in a wild mess. “I guess—uh. I’m gonna pull out.”

“Yeah.” You resist the urge to clench yourself around him one last time. Ride the aftershocks. “Sounds good.”

He draws out, draws back along your body until he’s up on his knees. He turns away from you to get the condom off. His hair curtains his face.

You sit up, still panting a little. It feels like you’ve just sprinted the rest of Route 50—but in a good way? Your whole body feels delicious, your muscles warm and satisfied. The fact that you’re kind of tacky with sweat is just a distant concern. You pull your rucked-up shirt down, then lift your hips to pull your jeans up. Twenty minutes from civilization, Dean said. You can clean up proper then.

Sam’s pulled his own jeans back up, and now sits back on his ass. He’s still not facing you as, nonchalantly, he tosses the tied-off condom into the woods.

You’ve gotta say something. He seems fine, so you gotta just—whatever comes to mind. You blurt, “Some park ranger’s gonna make you cough up, like, a two hundred dollar fine for that.”

“I’ll take my chances.” His knees draw up as he turns to you, worry and dread in his very normal, very beautiful eyes. “You okay?”

“Am _I_ —yeah, I’m fine. You?”

“I think. . .” He looks down at himself. “I’m good. Tired, but. Pretty sure it’s actually gone this time.”

“Should we give it a minute?”

“Yeah.” He drapes his arms over his raised knees.

Silence presses in around you. Well—birds still call overheard. There’s a soft breeze that ruffles the leaves.

The leaves.

Quickly, you glance around. Poison ivy is what, oval leaves, bright green?

“What is it?” Sam’s brow is furrowed.

“Looking for poison ivy,” you explain. “Heard you’re allergic.”

“Yeah. Trust me, I made sure to check. I’m good.”

“Well, then.” You smile, trying to encourage Sam to do it, too. “Dean owes me ten bucks.”

Sam looks at you sideways. “Because. . .?”

“When he thought you were just taking a leak, he bet me you’d get poison ivy on your dick.”

Sam shakes his head, bewildered. “What, did he think I’d just—rub myself in plants?”

“I do not pretend to know how that man’s mind works.”

“Yeah, me neither.” He breathes out long and slow. “Don’t suppose I’ll ever hear the end of this.”

“Hey, you might.” You nudge him, gently, with the toe of your shoe. “I told ‘em all there’d be hell to pay if any of them mentioned this ever again.”

His smile starts and stops, then starts again, bigger. “You did, huh.”

“Yeah. Not gonna let them tease you about something you couldn’t help.”

Gratitude brims in his eyes. “Thanks,” he says. “And thanks for. . . for everything. All of this.”

“Any time. Well—not _any_ time, but—”

“I got it.” He looks back toward the road. “We should probably, uh.”

“Yeah.” Even after everything, you’d be content to stay here for awhile longer, basking in sunlight. Holding off the change in your friendship that’s gonna happen once you emerge from the woods. Wondering how you’re going to live with the fact that you’ve had Sam once, and you won’t ever again. You climb to your feet. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Dean, Cas, and Jack are waiting by the Impala, and when they catch you and Sam approaching, they fall silent. And stare. “I’m good,” says Sam, dismissive. “And hungry. Let’s get rolling.”

Dean’s face works through about four different expressions. You swing around to the driver’s side, right up to him, then hold up a hand. “Cough it up.”

He stares at you.

“We had a bet,” you remind him. “Ten bucks.”

He shakes his head, fighting a smile as he fishes out his wallet. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

You snap the crisp ten-dollar bill at Sam, who’s watching, smirking, from the other side of the car. “Buying you lunch with this,” you say. “You’re welcome.”

Before you can open your door, Cas touches your shoulder and draws you a few paces away. “I was right,” he says, out of earshot of the Winchesters. “That translation wasn’t entirely accurate.”

Shit. “But Sam’s fine.”

“The cure still worked, yes. But only because the conditions of your coupling satisfied the true translation.”

That’s—what. “I’m lost here, Cas.”

“The final line of the inscription. ‘ _Or a lover saves him.’_ It wasn’t actually ‘ _a’_ lover. The translation should’ve said ‘ _the’_ lover. Meaning his—his true love, for back of a better term.”

Oh. _Oh_. “So. You. That means. . .”

“If I’d been the one to do it,” Cas says, “he’d still be in danger. But you did it. And because he loves you, it broke the curse. He’s safe.”

Dammit, you did _not_ give your hands permission to get all shaky again. “So you’re saying Sam’s in love with me.”

“Based on our earlier conversation,” he says gently, “I think you may be the last one to find out.”

It makes sense. It does. You thought there was real hurt in Sam’s eyes when you tried to shrug off what you were doing there. _I should’ve said something,_ he started to tell you earlier. Maybe that. . . fuck, and the look on his face when you told him you were about to come too, that breathless, eager hope.

“Do with that information what you will,” says Cas. He’s already heading back toward the Yaris, where Jack waits by the open passenger door.

You turn back to the Impala. Dean’s just climbing in, but Sam’s leaning on the roof, watching you. Worried.

Okay. One more deep breath. Time to give your heart away completely.

“Hey,” you say when you’re close. Dean turns the ignition over, and you’re absurdly grateful for the rumble.

“Hey,” says Sam. God, the lines between his furrowed brows are so _cute_.

“So I’m apparently the densest person in the universe,” you tell him. “I missed a lot of—I should’ve said—crap. Do you wanna get dinner tomorrow night? With me? You can tell me how many signals I missed, and I can tell you how scared I was to make a move, because I was so convinced you could never—oh. Hi.”

His hands alight on your jaw, his gaze wide with incredulity. Then he ducks his head and seals his mouth to yours. A sweet, chaste little pluck, careful and just barely open to hint at more. So much more. He draws back to rest his forehead against yours. His thumbs sweep your cheeks. His hazel eyes dance with joy. With relief. He says, “It’s a date.”

**Author's Note:**

> yell with me on tumblr @[sp-oops](http://sp-oops.tumblr.com).


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